


Huntering

by soffgluten



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Hunter!Will, Hunting, Mild Gore, Violence, idk what else to put uh hi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 06:49:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21387895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soffgluten/pseuds/soffgluten
Summary: Will is, first and foremost, a hunter.But he is also an exception.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Huntering

**Author's Note:**

> CW for descriptions of wounds and blood!
> 
> this is the first thing i've written for the Hannibal fandom, and the first thing i've written after a long time. enjoy~
> 
> not beta'ed.

Will is, first and foremost, a hunter.

His senses are honed to pin-prick accuracy, his feet light as snow, eyes unblinking and facing forward, going towards the goal.

But those aren’t the only reasons why he’s a hunter.

A lot of people actually confuse hunters with predators. There is a certain distinction, however unnoticeable, however thin it may be, that Will is keenly aware of. It is thought that hunting is a killing sport, used for showing off and boasting during parties. It isn’t - hunting, in itself, is a necessity for survival without which any living beast would starve. Hunters revere the living and respect it, make the natural cycle turn, control nature and give back to it.

Predators, on the other hand, use hunting as a means to an end. They kill for sport and desecrate nature, throw off the natural balance of things. They cause chaos within anything they touch, leave scars wherever their claws strike. They kill for sport - they hunt for prey not out of necessity, but as a form of entertainment. That is why not all hunters are predators, but all predators are hunters.

Of course, exceptions exist within any concept, for any rule. Will could be considered an exception.

The snow underneath his feet crunches, louder than intended to, and Will stills. He shakily but quietly breathes out, the fog forming in front of his face partially obscuring the deer in front of him. He immediately sets his sights on it, arms rising to position the rifle on the creature’s neck. If he shot right, it would be a painless and quick death. Were he to miss by an inch, the deer would be bleeding out in agony.

His hands are shaking from the cold, numb fingers unsteadily gripping the weapon tighter and closer to him. This moment was always the hardest. It was the limbo between the opportunity and the shot. Would he lose his nerve? Would his eyes focus on the blood staining the fine brown hairs, sullying the snow below in red? Or would he imagine himself as the deer, unaware and innocent, looking for food in this harsh winter. A deer, prey, helpless to the whims of predators and hunters alike, robbed of its only weapon during the harshest season. Without antlers, all deer can do is run, their hearts pulsing wildly, running past the point when they can’t anymore because stopping would mean _ death _.

A shot rings out, startling the nearby birds out of the trees. Will can hear his blood rushing in his ears, mind playing loud static as he recovers from the anticipated shock. The animal is crumpled on the ground, a single neat shot emanating blood from its neck. His body moves slowly, carefully, even when it doesn’t matter if he startles the deer or not anymore. When he’s standing above it, he lowers his rifle and tosses it carelessly in the snow, the deer letting out a faint whimper.

“Shhh,” Will quietly soothes as he crouches, gloveless chilly-red hands coming to stroke along its neck. He looks into its deep dark eyes and sees a reflection of himself, looking at his kill with something unreadable in his expression. Perhaps it was guilt, or perhaps he was mourning; whatever it was, it burrows within Will too deeply, makes him feel too uncomfortable, that he can’t help but look away, above the rim of his glasses and into the blurry background of dark trees. The deer stills within his hands a few moments later, the life within his hands leaving.

He should be going now; the longer the meat stays unprepared, the worse it’ll get due to the bleeding. But for some reason he stays crouching above the deer, not looking into its eyes but rather the red snow splattered around it. When he closes his eyes he imagines the bullet breaking the skin, tearing past muscle and blood vessels and veins, lodging itself deeply and inevitably into its body. He wonders; did it feel the pain? Did it suffer, still? Will doesn’t know whether he missed that crucial one inch or not, so caught up within his mind as he’s often wont to do. It’s not a good quality for a hunter.

It’s why Will, despite calling himself a hunter, also calls himself an exception. He vehemently denies being a predator who hunts for sport, but admits to enjoying the hunt. The reason why he hunts is because he _ understands _prey to its most base instinct, can track them effortlessly, and that makes him feel self-satisfied and proud when he eventually catches them. He also understands predators, why they look for the sight of blood, why their bloodlust leaves them so unsettled.

Fishing doesn’t really compare to game hunting in the same way, but it’s still enjoyable for Will nonetheless.

His lips quirk slightly when the memory of Hannibal complimenting his fish darts across his mind. The man, meat-obsessed as he was, asked him if he would be willing to offer his services. Will had thought that Hannibal liked cherry-picking his ingredients, was confused why Hannibal would want him to wield a gun and track down a deer. (Black hooves black horns death towering above him clap _ clap clap closer closer- _ ) For some unfathomable reason, Will agreed, if only to show off his skills to the psychiatrist ( _ it’s a warning, beware his reckoning _).

With trembling, icy, bloodstained fingers, he fishes his phone out of the pocket of his coat. He almost misdials the number three times from how badly his fingers are trembling. Wheezy chuckles make his chest shake as he finally hits the right button, and the call connects.

There’s still something left in Will’s voice, airy, slightly raspy, whispering of mania and hysteria, when he tells Hannibal: “I caught your deer.”

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked it!


End file.
